


Scarlett and the Necklace

by mistyzeo



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-12
Updated: 2009-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a cheap little trinket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlett and the Necklace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://lilfluffykitten.livejournal.com/profile)[**lilfluffykitten**](http://lilfluffykitten.livejournal.com/)'s challenge _Scarlett and her necklace_ for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/raise_the_dead/profile)[**raise_the_dead**](http://community.livejournal.com/raise_the_dead/) fic extravaganza.

It was a cheap little trinket, and Scarlett knew it, but she wore it around her neck anyway, because she liked it. It wasn't particularly shiny or pretty—and most of the things she bought were both shiny and pretty, if not very expensive—but the warmth of the little smooth, black, oblong stone against her throat was comforting. Comfort was not something she got a whole lot of, in a life like hers.

It had been a gift. She would not have even thought to pick up and buy something so silly and simple and unassuming. Scarlett had never had many suitors, only customers, but one or two gentlemen managed to capture her eye and warm her heart. The small black stone on its leather thong had been a gift from a young, tough, sweet boy, probably no older than seventeen, who sought her out every time he was in port. He had tousled black hair, and big bright brown eyes, and cheeks that blushed like a girl's when he was at the height of his passion.

Scarlett didn't love him. She didn't love anyone. She and the other girls had agreed that love was a thing for stories, and for rich people who could afford to have love affairs. And she knew the boy didn't love her. But he liked her, and she liked him, and they were content. When she saw him coming down the street, that look of boyish eagerness on his face, she couldn't help smiling. Their eyes would meet, and she would smirk and wink, and he would grin, and come up and sweep her into a hug. Then he'd bend her backwards, giving her a kiss she'd usually add five pence onto her fee for, and he'd take her back to his cramped room over the White Bull tavern.

He was a man she'd fuck all night. He was polite, and he wasn't hard on the eyes, and he wasn't an innocent little child neither. He knew what was what when it came to women, and she enjoyed her time with him. Sometimes she gave him a little extra and charged him a little less, but he never tried to take advantage of her livelihood.

The necklace was a parting gift, two or three years ago. This particular young man had been in port for almost three weeks, while the ship he served on was refitted and patched up from a minor encounter she had with the Spanish Navy. She'd seen him several times already, and they were lying together, spent and loose-limbed in his hard bed in the small, dingy room. He got up and crossed the room, splendid in the lamp light, and came back with his hand in a fist. He held it out to her and she cupped her own hand under his, and he dropped the little black stone into her palm.

Scarlett scrutinized it, peering at in the dim light, and then looked up at him, confused.

He looked embarrassed, and was blushing again. She grinned.

"It's just something I found," he said. "It's not much, but I thought you might like it."

She looked at it a little longer, and then looked at him again. He took it from her and tied it neatly around her throat. "I do like it," she said, truthfully. "I'll wear it always."

"You don't have to do that," he said, laughing. But she did wear it, because she liked him, and because she knew he'd always be coming back to her. That was the way he was. They got along.


End file.
